


Stop Staring at Me With Them Big Ol' Eyes

by pasta_enby



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - The Entities are Represented by Cats, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, M/M, Mutual Pining, Tags May Change, and Jon struggles, this is dumb but please just take it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:27:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22869349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasta_enby/pseuds/pasta_enby
Summary: There is a cat in Jon's office.He has never seen this cat before, nor is there any decent explanations present that can make sense of the cat.---Or, the Entities manifest as animals to their avatars.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 27
Kudos: 260





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm back and at it again with a half-baked idea and a determination to finish a multi-chapter fic for once! Don't look too deeply into the specifics of any of this, please, because I'm not sure how consistent I can be with details. But thank you, the person reading this, for seeing my summary and clicking on this fic! I hope you enjoy!

There was a cat in Jon’s office.

Maybe he was just imagining it? Was he hallucinating, for some reason? Unlikely, he thought, but he refused to believe it was real.

It was a cute cat, though. It was a plain grey one, with soft fur and a long tail. It never blinked. Its eyes were the most significant part about it—they were wide and a bright, harsh yellow-green that seemed to glow in the dim office.

As he sat shock-still in his chair he decided to call it Eyes, for obvious reasons.

Eyes was prancing about on top of his desk, pushing over stacks of paper and loose writing utensils. It caught his own eyes as it did it, as if it were testing the waters to figure out if Jon would become angry or put up with the annoyance. Its eyes bored into Jon’s soul and its tail flickered impishly. Its gaze mocked Jon, daring him to try to stop it.

He refused to budge a muscle, to acquiesce to a damned cat.

Jon lasted five minutes before he picked it up by the scruff of the neck, just how Georgie had showed him with the Admiral, and brought it out to his assistants.

“What is this doing here?” He asked indignantly.

Tim and Sasha shared a hesitant glance. Sasha looked back up at him and asked concernedly, “Jon, have you slept recently?”

Jon’s face became flushed. He spluttered, “I’m sorry? Of course I have! Well, maybe not enough, but I just— I’ve found a new box of statements— That’s not relevant! Why is there a cat in my office?!”

Sasha sprung up. “You have a cat in your office? Can I see it?”

Jon pinched the bridge of his nose, then sighed and fixed his glasses. “I. Have. It. Right. Here.” Each word was emphasized by a slight shake of the surprisingly calm cat in his grasp.

Tim chimed in after a moment, as if he had carefully chosen the words that would not make Jon snap. “Sasha might be right, boss. Why don’t you just go home and get some rest, alright? We can talk about the cat in your office afterwards.”

Jon dropped Eyes, who had been oddly unbothered by the manhandling. It gracefully fell to the floor and then meandered right back to Jon’s office. It sat in front of the shut door and began mewling as though it had been shot while it scratched at the hinges, begging to be let back into Jon's stuffy office. Tim and Sasha didn’t seem to notice the sound of its fall nor its incessant meowing. Jon watched Eyes, ignoring the silent conversation between Tim and Sasha.

Tim furrowed his brow. “Let’s get you to the cot.” Tim sounded...patronizing. Jon felt insulted, despite the situation.

Jon didn’t feel like fighting this, though. He didn’t want them to think he was insane, (He didn’t need more rumors of him being unqualified for this job to come into existence) so he sighed defeatedly, dragged his hands across his face and replied. “Yes, I think that would be beneficial.”

—-

Since then, Eyes never left him alone. Well, that was an exaggeration. It would come into his office as it pleased (Jon had initially tried to simply shut the cat out of his office, but it would meow and whine until it was back inside, which might've just been a slight nuisance if it lasted for fifteen minutes, but after the three hour mark Jon gave in and went to fetch some painkillers for his developing headache). It was difficult to find a moment in which the damned cat wasn’t in his field of vision somewhere.

Eyes would even occasionally jump into his lap and sleep. It reminded him of the Admiral in the way it expressed affection— with sporadic cuddles, but mostly just by occupying the same room as Jon.

He didn’t mind Eyes, per say, he just wanted an explanation for it. He had seen supernatural things in his life before, so it wasn’t a stretch to conclude that this was paranormal, but he had never heard of cats that were invisible to all but one.

So that is why Jon sat at his desk, a cluttered excuse for a work area, frantically searching through the statements that Gertrude had arbitrarily filed away. It was thankless work, but necessary, because if he didn’t solve this soon he was going to crack.

Eyes sat rather unhelpfully on his feet. It was curled up as though it was asleep, but its eyes were wide open. They followed Jon as he flipped through statement after statement, growing more anxious with each one.

A crisp knock at his door startled him and pulled his eyes away from the statement he was holding— one of a Sarah Knipp regarding a portrait of her late grandfather. 

Elias Bouchard stood in the doorway, with most of his body already in the office. The knock had been a mere formality, considering his perpetually-open office.

“May I speak with you for a moment, Jonathan?”

Jon, though confused by the impromptu meeting, nodded. “I, um, need to tidy up, if that is alright with you. May I ask what this is about?”

“Oh, Jonathan, can I not check in with my dear Archivist without all this suspicion?”

Jon narrowed his eyes. “Seriously, sir, that platitude does nothing to make me less suspicious. Rather the opposite.”

Elias sat down in the chair across from Jon’s, his posture stiff but comfortable, his legs crossed. “Please, call me Elias. I was here to discuss, well, you. Your staff has come to me, telling me that you were feeling a bit under the weather. They said you looked a bit pale and that you were experiencing what they believed to be hallucinations. Care to explain?”

“I. Um. I didn’t receive enough sleep a few nights ago, due to a heavy workload, and thought I saw something. I wasn’t thinking straight. Nothing serious, though, and I haven’t gone through anything of the sorts since.” Jon avoided the stare of Eyes, as if just by glancing at it he would be acknowledging its existence and his own lies.

Elias looked at him the same way Tim had. “Jon, you’re not telling me the full story. What is it that you saw?”

Jon wanted to lie to Elias, but he felt the truth slip out of him, like a worm squirming out of his throat. “I saw a cat in my office.”

Elias tilted his head to the side, considering the response. “And? Have you seen it since?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Constantly. Right now.”

Elias sighed, then leaned forward and uncrossed his legs. “It wasn’t supposed to be this soon,” he muttered. He seemed almost disappointed. But not surprised. No, nothing seems to surprise him, does it? 

“Elias, may I ask what you mean by that?”

“Oh, Jonathan, you are full of surprises, aren’t you?” Elias set his elbows on his side of the desk, threading together his fingers and setting his chin on top of them. “This cat, is there anything particularly intriguing about it?”

Eyes, as if sensing the discussion of its presence, stretched then leaped into Jon’s lap. Jon startled slightly before instinctively petting it. He didn’t like answering Elias, and he didn’t feel the strange force that yanked the responses out of him, but he hated not knowing things a lot more.

So Jon said, “Well, besides the fact I am the only one who can see it? Not much. Though…”

“Though?”

Jon inhaled sharply. “Well, it’s a bit daft, but its eyes are rather….off-putting.”

Elias hummed, and Jon watched him test his response in his head, like a wine enthusiast rolling about a sip of a new chabernet on their tongue. He murmured, so quietly that Jon wasn’t even sure he heard it correctly, “This is much sooner than Gertrude….” before once again sitting straight up. “This is a very odd circumstance, certainly. If I were you I would keep this to myself.”

Jon felt a rush of indignation. “Why can’t I share this wi—”

Elias sent Jon a piercing glare that shut him right up. “As I was saying, it is in your best interests to keep this little issue to yourself. Sharing it with your assistants will only weaken your bonds with them.”

“Can you at least tell me what it is? A ghost? Hallucination? A vision?”

Elias gave him a too-wide smile, one of the forced ones that you usually see on unhappy customer service employees. “I think that is something for you to figure out for yourself, Jonathan. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going.”

Elias was out of the door before Jon could think of a good response.

Eyes purred contentedly in his lap, blissfully unaware (or at least pretending to be) of the situation.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin confronts Jon.

Jon tried to stick by Elias’s requirements. Well, sort of. He had continued his desperate search for information, for one. It was a herculean effort to find any statements that could help him, but he persisted.

He had also….not exactly kept it to himself.

He had fully intended to keep this concern between him and Elias, though. 

It had begun with him, pacing his cramped office, theorizing to himself. About Eyes. About Elias. About the conditions of Elias’s request. Eyes sat precariously on top of a stack of papers, watching Jon with a mix of curiosity and joy.

When Martin suddenly appeared behind him, he was not ashamed to say he jolted, spinning quickly to meet his assailant.

To be fair, it was nearly eight in the evening. The others should’ve been long gone from the Institute at that point.

Martin wore a sweater with form-fitting jeans. It wasn’t especially fashionable, nor was it strictly allowed by the harsh dress code, but it was….flattering. He held a pair of mugs in his hands. They were filled to the brim with steaming tea, one black, one with milk and honey.

Jon realized he hadn’t spoken soon enough as he watched Martin grow awkward and concerned. He had yet to calm his beating heart and his trembling hands, but thankfully Martin noticed.

“Uh. Tea?”

Jon took in a deep breath as he straightened himself out. He easily took his mug from Martin’s hand, a ritual that Martin had begun the moment Jon was appointed Head Archivist. “Yes, thank you, Martin.”

Martin didn’t immediately leave Jon’s office, as he usually did. Instead he stood his ground and began sipping the too-hot tea. “So, what are you doing here so late?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“Hey, I asked you first!” Martin spluttered.

Jon cupped his mug gently, letting the waning steam fog up his glasses and warm his face. “I’ve been trying to solve something. I find it easier to think while in my office, so, here I am. Why are you here?”

“Um. I was just trying to catch up on some work. Statements. Filing. You know. The things we do here.”

Martin was trying to hide the fact that he had stayed at work several hours past his shift in the hopes that he could confront Jon about his odd behavior as of late. He was doing a poor job, but Jon didn’t think too much into it, so both parties were left ignorant.

Jon hummed thoughtfully. “I suppose you will be leaving soon, yeah?”

“I mean, sure, I guess.” Martin shifted his weight the other foot, growing uncomfortable once again. “Jon, are you….alright? You’ve been acting really off lately.”

“I’m fine, Martin. Just one day that I was short of sleep leads to a lot more questions about my mental health than I would’ve thought.” Jon said this jokingly, but the humor fell flat in the face of Martin’s concern.

“Seriously, Jon, what’s going on?” More silence. “What are you trying to solve?”

“It’s complicated, and really not that big of a deal. Would you please leave me alone?”

Martin gave Jon a stern look. “I’m making you another cup of tea.”

Jon glanced down at his mug, about to refuse the offer and make some comment about how he’d hardly even started on this one, until he realized he already drank it all. He nodded. Maybe he could use this.

And so, Martin was gone for a few moments, boiling the water and steeping the tea, while Jon collected his thoughts. He ought to just leave. Make an excuse, something about feeling ill or his mother dying. Something believable.

It’s not that he didn’t like Martin. Well, he didn’t not like him. He certainly didn’t hate the stumbling man. Jon didn’t get along with a lot of people, and he didn’t have much patience, so Martin was probably doomed from the start. Jon only seemed to let those bold enough in their first impressions worm their ways close to him.

Like Tim, and Sasha to a certain extent. They were outgoing and loud and might’ve stood just a little too close to Jon during their respective first meetings.

Georgie, even, the closest thing he had to a best friend, had had the gall to plop next to him right before a lecture. It was his freshman year of college. He was terrified of everyone and everything and high school had not prepared his weak heart even the smallest bit for this. Georgie had just began….talking to him. Making small talk but still having it feel personal.

Jon had let her be the guiding force. He was just along for the ride, with her. Georgie was always the first one to make a move, to speak, to touch. To say goodbye. Jon had grown comfortable with the way she led those around her and never really figured out how to do it himself.

Martin was not one of those people. Jon hardly knew the man, but he knew from the moment they met, it would be an awkward work relationship, the type that one never escapes.

(Martin was walking into the Archives. He wasn’t late for his first day in the Magnus Institute, but he wasn’t early. Merely….punctual. On time. He had hoped to make an extraordinary first impression so that there wouldn’t be much reason to look into the specifics of his resume, but that hope was quickly dying.

He was struggling to fix his bowtie— a dumb novelty, he probably shouldn’t have worn it, but his mother had told him it looked alright, which is very high praise coming from her. 

But anyway. He marched to the doors to his department, ignoring all else. He swung them open, perhaps just a little too harshly, especially since his boss was already there. 

His boss was a handsome man, with properly trimmed facial hair and black slicked-back hair that was streaked with silver. He had rectangular glasses that were bound to his person by a beaded cord. He wore a tweed suit jacket that fit a tad too loose, just enough so that it was….cute.

He was staring at Martin. He held a stack of papers, the topic of which Martin was uncertain. Jon cleared his throat and motioned for the other to start talking. 

“Hello, I’m, uh, Martin, I’m here for the….job? Archival assistant. That’s what I am. You must be my boss, right? Jonathan Sims? I’ll just call you Mr. Sims, if that’s alright with—”

“Just call me Jon.”

“Right, uh, where should I, uh.” Martin waved at his bag, which was practically bursting at the seams with any and all possible materials he would need.

Jon sighed and patted one of the three desks he was standing by. “This one will do. There is the paper describing your assignments for today, which will be mostly getting acclimated to the various duties you will be given as an archival assistant. I will be in my office if you require anything.”

Martin nodded briskly as Jon strolled back into his personal office, ignoring the sharp pain in his chest as he realized he had made a complete idiot of himself, and that he would probably be fired within a week.

He’d deserve it, too.

Jon could only think of how he hoped Martin wouldn’t be like this the entire time. He couldn’t stand his uncertainty, his fidgeting, his nervousness. Whatever. It’s not like he will be required for too much actual work. How much could there even be to do in an archive? )

Jon was snapped out of his thoughts by Martin entering his office, once again, with a steaming mug of tea. Jon reached for it and refused to show how the hot ceramic burned his palms uncomfortably.

“Can I sit?”

“If you must.” A beat. “You know,” Jon said, shifting in his seat, as Martin situated himself into the rickety chair, “it’s getting awfully late. Why don’t you go home; I’ll be leaving in just a few minutes anyways, I only need to wrap up one last thing.”

“Jon, please. Tell me what’s going on. I need to be able to help you.” 

“Why?”

Martin averted his gaze, then returned it twofold to Jon. “You’re avoiding the question. Just tell me. I’ll leave you alone. I can tell you don’t like me, just tell me this one thing and I won’t speak to you again beyond what’s necessary, if you want.”

“That’s not— I don’t— Martin, it’s not like—”

“Just answer the damn question, Jon!” Martin didn’t shout this, but he said it with much more force than anything else he had said, and the drastic change startled Jon.

They sat in silence for a moment, broken only by Martin’s deep, shuddering breaths. Jon spoke up, “I’ve been seeing things. Well, just one thing. I’m still not sure what it is or why it is I’m seeing it. Elias was very vague.”

“What? What have you been seeing?”

Jon usually wouldn’t be so free with information, but the combination of the warm sated feeling he got from the smooth, milky tea and the guilt of making Martin so….emotional broke his typically powerful inhibitions.

He told Martin everything, and at the end Martin could only sit in perplexed silence. “So,” he began tentatively, “is it like a….ghost? A ghost cat?”

Jon shrugged. Usually he would have a much more indignant reaction to the insinuation that ghosts were real, but with the aforementioned factors he reconsidered.

“Is it here right now?”

Jon looked at Eyes. It was curled up on the ground in front of a bookshelf. It watched Jon, not particularly interested in the turn of events. Its tail flicked lazily as its attention would jump between the two men. This glance was answer enough for Martin.

“Could I….pet it?”

“I mean, you could certainly try.”

Martin’s face grew determined as he marched to the area Jon had looked at. “Am I close?” he asked, waving his hand around near the ground.

“You’re in the right place, and you are touching the cat, but it doesn’t seem to acknowledge it. No, wait. It's annoyed. Maybe quit doing that.”

Martin made an amused sound as he withdrew his hand. “So you can tell what emotions it’s feeling?”

“Well, it isn’t too difficult. It’s very emotive.”

“If you say so.” Martin, though thoroughly conflicted about Jon’s situation, found his reactions to Eyes….cute. 

Martin did his best to keep his feelings down, he didn’t need another dead-end crush ruining him emotionally, but then he would see the way Jon’s eyes had softened when looking at the cat. The scattered scratch marks on his hand from attempts to play with it were indication enough of how important the strange spirit cat was to him.

It all warmed his heart, made it feel claustrophobic as if filled with cotton and steam, or maybe like caramel— thick, sticky, and unmoving in his chest.

But then Martin saw the twitches of Jon’s eyes as he checked the clock on the wall, the jittery movements of his feet, thumping erratically against the thinly carpeted floors. Martin had only kept the man as long as he had to get a good explanation out of him, but now Martin knew it was time to let him return home.

Martin stood up swiftly. “I think I’ll be headed out now, Jon. Get a hold of me if something new comes up, alright?” He 

“Sure.” Jon didn’t seem like he would keep his word, but there wasn’t much Martin could do about that, short of tying him up or locking him into his office.

“You won’t, um, take me up on what I said? About the not-talking-ever-again thing?”

Jon gave him a look that wasn’t soft nor warm, maybe not even kind, but still….not rude. Apologetic, possibly? “No, I suppose I won’t. Be seeing you, Martin.”

Eyes watched him leave. It didn’t seem to mind Martin’s intrusion, but once the main door of the Archives department swung shut, it began impatiently pawing at a folder on the bookshelf.

Jon could only huff and say, “Yes, Eyes, I’ll do that one next.”

He picked up the statement, clicked on the tape recorder, and began. “Timothy Hodge, regarding his sexual encounter with one Harriet Lee and her subsequent death. Statements begins.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! I didn't properly beta read this, but eh, good enough. And don't mind me straying from the plot for a bit, I need to establish some of that good Slow-Burn(tm) Jonmartin. As always, comment or kudo if you enjoyed, and tell me if you have any suggestions or ideas! I will take them into account because y'all are amazing!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin is out sick.
> 
> Jon investigates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> consistent updating schedule? who is that?
> 
> enjoy! please comment any ideas, suggestions, corrections, because I know my beta-reading isn't the best! thank you for reading!

Martin was out sick. Jon wasn’t worried, not one bit.

Jon was annoyed at first. Martin wouldn’t specify exactly what his condition was. Jon would’ve preferred to at least have a name for what was wrong, not just “stomach issues”. Elias had mentioned something or other about a stomach bug, but stomach problems can’t take a person out of commission for over a day, though. Right?

Then his sick leave went from slightly long to abnormally extended. Jon was concerned that Martin was very bad off, not just medically, but worse, much worse, something horrible had happened and he couldn’t reach out, the texts he sent were forced out of him and Jon was just sitting on his ass— 

No. The Archives were merely behind on work, and Jon needed that one extra set of hands. That’s it. Martin was perfectly safe, only sick.

Eyes was acting weird. The cat was already odd, but even more so with Martin’s absence. It would ignore Jon for the most part; it took Martin’s empty desk as its home, only leaving for statements. It would hiss exaggeratedly at the occasional bug, sometimes going as far as leading Jon to the newest insect crawling about the Institute.

Jon tried to ignore it all, but before he knew it, a week had passed. When he was packing up to leave, to go home for the lonely weekend, Eyes began to circle around his legs, then trot forward a few steps. It would look back at Jon to ensure that he was keeping up.

Jon would’ve dismissed it, but the small voice in his head, the irrational one, the one that still screamed at him when he saw a spider and felt that rush of fear and excitement when he found one of the real statements, told him to follow.

So Jon did. The cat took a very roundabout route, cutting through skinny alleyways and jaywalking across busy streets, but eventually Jon, panting and sweating, was at the front doors of an apartment building. Martin’s, he noted, recognizing the address from his application.

It was an old and cramped complex, and not in the “vintage” way that Martin adored. It was a few decades old, lacking in any updates or reconstructions at the points in which brick and wood crumbled and rotted. It looked unclean and hardly inhabited with its flickering lights and occasional boarded up window. It was the kind of place that a struggling college student might live, or those on the verge of homelessness that needed shelter in whatever form they could get. A bare necessity. Nothing more than what was absolutely required.

It didn’t help that hundreds, maybe even thousands, of worms were squirming across the building. On the sidewalks, the walls, even the door handles. Eyes batted at a few of those that strayed too close, and then butted Jon’s legs with its head, nudging the man towards the entrance.

The inside was only worse. A path of crushed worms were left in his wake as Jon tiptoed through the filth, following Eyes to what he assumed to be Martin’s room. He didn’t know for sure, but the conviction that came with that thought was too strong to ignore. The worms separated their slimy, silvery bodies to accommodate the cat’s footsteps, as if expecting its presence, but not Jon’s. He would never get those disgusting worm guts off of his shoes.

The pair ascended the uncomfortably small staircase. Cobwebs and worms and even a few dead rodents were scattered across the steps and banister, which creaked under the presence of Jon’s hand. He quickly withdrew it. There were no open doors at the junction of each floor; they were shut tightly, and Eyes took the stairs two at a time, so Jon could hardly stop and investigate.

It felt like an eternity before Eyes seemingly arbitrarily stopped at one floor and began its familiar pattern of clawing at the door in front of it. The worms seemed to spawn from this particular floor; they writhed between the hinges and wriggled underneath the frame of the door, where it didn’t exactly meet the ground.

Jon’s heart picked up its pace as he approached the origin point of the worms, but he pushed through the anxiety and swung open the rotting, filthy door. 

It was a long hallway, surprisingly so, considering how the apartment building appeared from the outside. The worms sprawled across the floors and walls and ceiling, obscuring any lights that may still be working and hiding the carpeting from sight.

At the end of the hallway, he saw what must’ve once been a woman. It was hard to tell now, with all the….worms. They squirmed over and through her body, burrowing through the gaping, rotting holes scattered across her skin like freckles. Their silvery bodies left a murky slime in their wake; the combination of this slime and the decay already present her body left Jon utterly repulsed and nauseated just from the sight.

She stood before a particular door; it wasn’t special in its appearance, but nonetheless she stalked outside of it. She knocked incessantly on the door, only pausing as her eyes (they were empty, black holes, as if the eyeballs had rotted out of their sockets, leaving only long-dead matter left in their stead. A worm writhed in one of the sockets.) met Jonathan’s. Eyes arched its back and hissed sharply, its claws unsheathed.

He froze in place. Jon felt as though he needed something to protect himself— a knife, a gun, but oh god he didn’t know how to use one, maybe a pipe, there must be one lying arou— 

His train of thought was cut off as he watched Eyes dash from his feet towards a bump on the wall. The worm almost immediately dispersed from that area, leaving only blank walls and a fire extinguisher. Eyes swiftly leaped up to the top of the case and stared down at Jon, who was shock-still.

The cat meowed and Jon’s mind finally caught up. He didn’t know how he knew what to do, but as Eyes gazed pointedly at him, it came to him. He ran to the fire extinguisher, ignoring the writhing worms surrounding his ankles, and broke the glass protecting it. He gripped the handle of it and squeezed. He watched with great pleasure and surprise as the worms either shrivelled up and died or rapidly retreated. The woman didn’t make a move until Jon pointed the extinguisher at her. If this scared the worms, it should work for the worm lady, too.

She smiled, her mouth full of worms, dirt, and blackened teeth. “Is that a threat, Archivist?”

Jon’s hands shook, though they calmed slightly once Eyes returned to his feet, waiting, for what, he did not know. “Who are you?”

She tilted her head, her long, greasy hair falling over her face, revealing dozens of new entry or exit points of her worms. “You really don’t know? Am I that below you, Archivist? I’ve given my statement, after all. Or maybe you don’t know who you are? That is fair, I suppose. I didn’t know who I was until I heard that sweet song of insects and decay. Oh, I’m rambling. That’s your fault, right?” Her voice was rough and….well, it was off. Something didn’t sound right, didn’t sound human, but Jon couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

Jon had no clue what she was talking about, and he wanted to delve deeper into this topic (what was this woman talking about? How did she know who he was? Why was it his fault?) but in this small moment of silence he heard a sound.

It was a soft one, a smothered whimper, maybe, or a hoarse cry for help. Jon knew it was Martin, despite the lack of actual evidence. He Knew, capital K, without a doubt. He felt Eyes curled tighter about his feet, as if trying to anchor him in place, make him continue this conversation.

Jon held the fire extinguisher and pointed the nozzle directly at the woman. “Either leave now or I will use this,” he said, his voice shaky but his hands firm on the trigger. He squeezed slightly, letting out a small puff of foam in a warning shot.

She sighed. “Oh, you’re no fun. I’ll have my time with you, though, Archivist. You will hear the song of rot and you will cry with joy and join us, or face your crimson fate.” 

With that she fell back into the worms, like a convoluted trust fall. She disappeared into their ranks, and the worms slowly exited the floor, leaving only their filth behind.

Jon was still quaking, his heart beating a harsh, irregular rhythm and his throat choked up, hardly breathing. Eyes moved once more, trotting to Martin’s door.

Jon spoke, his voice small and quavering. “M-Martin?”

A shift on the other side of the door. “Jon? Is that you?”

“I mean, uh, yes? Martin, are you okay?”

A beat as Martin presumably un-barricaded his door and promptly swung it open. He looked….horrible. Unshowered. In the same clothes that Jon had last seen him in. Underneath his eyes lay dark, bruise-like rings, and his skin was pale. He chuckled grimly, wiping his face with one hand, the other limp at his side, holding a switchblade. “No, I don’t believe so.”

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Do you want to get out of here?”

Martin looked at Jon as he was a man on the death row and Jon had just proved him innocent an hour before he was to be put to death. “Please,” he replied desperately. He held himself awkwardly, not knowing what to do now, the combination of filth and anxiety and dishevelment and exhaustion leaving him unsure.

“I suppose you won’t be wanting to stay here. Would you like to grab a few things and I can set you up in my spare room?”

Martin gave Jon a soft smile, one that melted away the tension he had felt for the past days. “That would be great.”

Jon watched silently, Eyes stuck firmly to his ankles, as Martin ran back inside, only to come back out with a bulging wallet and nothing else. “I’m just going to buy a whole new wardrobe and pantry and, well, everything else! I’ve got a good amount saved up. This flat was a poor choice, anyways,” he explained conversationally as the pair exited the ruined building.

Jon nodded understandingly. “Do you think you could elaborate on what….precisely happened? You told me you were sick!”

Martin’s eyes quickly met his, fear and confusion radiating off him. “Jon, what do you mean, I told you?”

Eyes suddenly stopped, preferring closely watching Martin over meandering about the streets of London. Jon halted with it. “You texted me a few days ago. What else could I possibly be suggesting?”

“Jon, I lost my phone!” His eyes widened in terror as he continued, “I was investigating case number 015….uh, 04 — the one with the spiders! Carlos Vittery! I went to his old flat, and then went into the basement, and there was this woman and I tried to take a picture but then the worms came and I dropped it and ran and came back to my apartment and I thought I was safe but then she started knocking and— “

Jon shifted so that he was standing directly in front of Martin. He gripped Martin’s upper arms reassuringly. “Martin, calm down, okay? We can talk about this back at my apartment,” he said gently.

Martin stood, stunned, but momentarily regained his composure. He steadied his breathing under Jon’s careful gaze, taking the deep, stabilizing breaths that he had learned to take once he realized that the only one that could help him out of this was himself. It was soothing, really, standing motionless on some nameless sidewalk in an equally unimportant area of town, in the feather-light grip of the man he felt far too much for, trying to pull the reins on the panic spilling out of him, too far for him to reach.

Once he was mollified, they walked in silence, shoulders bumping occasionally along the way, as Jon guided Martin to his home.

Eyes kept pace with the pair, but trailed behind by a foot or two, taking in the scene. It purred contentedly at both the previous incident and what was to come. Such wonderful fear.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed, please kudo and comment! I'll do my best to update regularly, especially since school is finally winding down. Thank you, again!


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